


Paparazzi

by DarthSuki



Series: Daft Punk (EDM) and You [5]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader is taking a calm walk through the park, waiting for Guy and Thomas to finish with some of their work at the studio when they're met with a very passionate and dedicated fan of the two who just wants to take a few pictures of the robots' partner, leading to very protective robots and a very angry reader who just wants to punch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paparazzi

**Author's Note:**

> While I didn't specify the person, I think you all know who the man is that I'm referring to in this one.
> 
> EDIT: It's come to my attention that perhaps I assumed a bit too much, especially newcomers to the DP fandom, for who would know the guy mentioned in this fic. Long story short--his name is Daftworld and he's a stalker to DP, and has become infamous for that in the fandom. If you wanna know specifics and more, [here's a great post detailing about how crappy of a person he is to DP](http://fuckyeah-daft-punk.tumblr.com/post/79915450410/all-about-daftworld). This fic isn't based on anything in particular, but it's not nearly as bad as he's done already to them.

General

Name: y/n  
Eye Color: e/c  
Hair color: h/c  
Hair Length: h/l

Gender

Subject Pronoun (He/She/Ect): s/p  
Object Pronoun (Him/Her/Ect): o/p  
Possessive Pronoun (His/Hers/Theirs/Ect): p/p  
Possessive Adjective (His/Her/Their/Ect): p/a  
Reflexive pronoun (Himself/Herself/Ect): r/p

* * *

 

It’s nice to go for a walk sometimes. Just to let yourself feel the gentle breeze of the wind against your skin or the soft chittering of birds. You smile as people pass beside you—laughing kids with their parents, a college student bemoaning about his test on the phone (probably to a friend in the exact same position), and even a runner or someone walking their dog. It’s nice and peaceful today, with a couple puffy clouds in the sky giving the day a soft, almost lazy look of sun and shade. The flowers are starting to bloom on the edges of the walkway, and several times you have to stop if only to look at them a few moments. Soft, brightly colored petals that almost implore you to pick them adorn each, though you know you wouldn’t have a place in the apartment to keep any such thing.

Besides, you’re not there enough to keep them watered, and you sure know neither Guy or Thomas would have a mind to remember something so small. The flowers are best off where they belong, in the park and on the ground so others too can pass them by and smile at their soft, almost silly beauty.

Just as you turn to start walking again, the buzz of your cell phone in your pocket pulls the thoughts of flowers and sunny days away from you. After a few button-presses to get past the unlock screen, you find a text waiting for you.

Just finished at the studio! Made some pretty lovely sounds B) - Thomas B.

The emoticon makes you roll your eyes—there hasn’t been a single text from the bot in the last two weeks that he hasn’t had some variant of it on whatever he sends you. Though, despite the seeming annoyance of it finding a niche in everything he sends, you can’t help but find it endearing—perhaps moreso then Guy does.

Could you pick me up then? I’m at the park just past the bakery. - y/n

Of course, you could easily walk home if you really wanted, considering that’s how you got to the park in the first place. But considering they’re already coming in this direction, you feel that you’d rather sit through their humorous bickering. It’s always something funny—the weather, food, a certain song or one time they spent nearly an hour arguing over whether they should call in something for you to eat or attempt to make it themselves (by the time they finished you had already called in and was eating a pizza). Their arguments or bickering are light and usually nonsense, though you simply can’t help but find them funny.

Considering that they’re probably going to pick you up from the northern intersection, you turn and start walking in that direction of the park, shoes lightly tapping against the hard stone of the pathway. There isn’t too much going on for it to feel chaotic—no overwhelming crowds of people, no swarming birds trying to all get at a single handful of seed an elderly couple were tossing about—just peace.

You can’t say it’s an odd sight, just one you don’t have all the time to see.

It isn’t a lie to say that, at times at least, it’s a little difficult to be with your robotic lovers in a public space. There’s always someone who gawks and looks at you, a nameless m/w who just happens to be the lover of Thomas and Guy-Manuel, and sometimes that someone asks something of you personally.

Luckily enough the media has been kind on you, often times overlooking the fact that you exist (which really should make you feel bad, but doesn’t) if only to know what your robotic lovers are up to. And even then, the coverage, questions, and sudden attention is sparse—perhaps it’s a cultural thing between the US and France.

You’ll never get used to having so many people trying to ask you questions all at once, or having so many pictures taken (most of which are stopped by either Guy or Thomas—how they can handle such a job is beyond you). It’s safe to say that your appearances in the US are sparse, but you take some embarrassed gratitude knowing most of the attention is under some legal control.

You can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for some, having to endure the constant stress of trying to keep the balance of one’s personal life and their career from toppling over into insanity. Thank god the worst you have yet to deal with is this one kid trying to start an argument with you during the last photo-shoot with Thomas and Guy. Poor kid probably didn’t even know who you were, standing off to the side of the cameras and workers with your cell in your lap.

The irony of that one hasn’t yet lost its hilarity.

"I wonder if they’re already there," you muse lightly to yourself as you walk, e/c eyes gently shifting over the bed of flowers that you pass just off the pathway. They’re in a feverish haste to bloom and get a taste of the sun, some wide open and others still shut tightly. You let yourself wonder what kind they are, but before you’re able to get a few possibilities flickering through your head, mostly due to their bright yellow and pink coloration, there’s suddenly someone pushing past you. Or, more appropriately, you’d describe it as someone running /into/ you, but it’s not as if you have all that time to judge details when suddenly you’re toppling to the ground with your arms flailing backwards to try and catch your fall.

The cement and stone walkway is hard, and you scrape up the palm of your hand when you toss it down backwards to break most of your fall. Your tailbone aches and you groan, god damn that hurt! The pain shivers through you as your e/c eyes quickly move up to see the offender either retreating away or standing to help you up, and luckily enough you find that it’s the latter.

"I’m sorry!" A masculine voice exclaims, and suddenly there’s a hand reaching down for you to take. Taking the kind gesture (despite the fact that the man nearly tackled you) you grab his hand and allow him to help you back up onto your feet. "You should watch where you’re going there, y’know."

It’s not entirely clear if the words were in tone of humor or some kind of annoyance, but nevertheless you’re polite and thank him for helping you up, making fists back and forth with your hands to make sure you didn’t break or sprain anything. Luckily enough for you, nothing seems for the worse, besides a bit of a scrape along your palm and perhaps a bruise against the length of your other arm (Guy is going to throw a fit again when he sees that—he nearly had a malfunction the last time you tripped and bruised up your shins). Eh, just clumsy is all, so you turn your face to at least properly thank or at least say something to the man that just helped you up.

"I uh—thanks I didn’t mean to—" But when you get the look of his face, your expression drops. Oh /hell/ no. No, no, and a thousand times no further that. It would be an exaggeration to try and describe that your blood runs cold and out of your face, but at the same time you definitely feel a physical reaction from your body at the sight of him. "I—I have to get going—" Maybe he doesn’t recognize you. Yes, oh please got let him not know it’s you, don’t let him remember the last time you saw him, when you, Thomas and Guy were walking together in the park.

Just as you take a step forward and decidedly away from him, that’s when the man’s face practically lights up, and he’s already fumbling for something (which you can only guess is his phone).

"Hold on, I just want to take a picture!"

"Stay away from me," is all you can say at first, keeping your face turned and walking away and towards the spot where Thomas and Guy would pick you up and get you away from this jerk before anything turned awry. "I don’t want any pictures so please go away."

"But y/n! You look so nice—just a picture?" The honey in his voice isn’t clear if it’s paraded or genuine, though at this point you just don’t care. Neither of your robotic partners are with you, so you can’t exactly hide behind them. "Don’t be like that! I just want a picture! It’s not as if your boyfriends are around here anyway right?" Though he’d take a picture of them anyway—you’re still trying to get over all the images he released that last time in the park you three had a run-in.

Just walk away, walk away and don’t turn your face. You have your phone in your hand and you’re typing frantically, and just as you press the send button, there’s a hand grabbing your shoulder and forcing you to twist around.

"Just one picture!" He says, and it’s quickly accompanied by the click and flashing of a camera. You cover your face in a combination of shame and embarrassment, trying forcefully to turn your body back around and walk (or preferably, run) as fast as you can out of the area and to the protection of Guy or Thomas—how they handled this was beyond you. You feel like you’re exposed, naked, and you just want to run back into the safety and anonymity of just being Daft Punk’s ‘partner’. You didn’t even want to know how this man managed to get your name, hidden beneath all the legal blockades that Thomas tried to set up to at least keep you from enduring the same media-showcasing that he and Guy received. And in France, it really worked—or at least, for every single person and media outlet besides this damn man.

"I said leave me alone!" You say again when he tries to reach out and pull a hand away from your flushed, ashamed face. "I swear I’ll call the cops!"

"But I’m just taking a picture," He says in defence, and god damn you only wish you were in the right angle to kick him in the stomach, if only to get his hand off your wrist. "You’re overreacting y/n, it’s not like you’re doing anything illegal—I just want to take a picture of your pretty face!"

"Well I don’t want you to," Oh you’re growling, you’re pissed and snarling and damn it all his grip is like iron. The commotion from the both of you starts to draw some attention, curious pairs of eyes looking at the two of you from across the walkway and over by the flowerbed. When this attention forces the man to let go of your wrist, you take the opportunity and move as far away from him as you can in the shortest amount of time.

It’s only when you’re entering through the main park square near the parking lot that you hear the man still following you. Like an idiot, you turn your head back in curiosity, not sure why you’re not hearing the clicks and seeing the flashes from a camera when.

"Turn that off!" He has a video camera. He has a video camera and you’re being recorded and god you don’t know what to do. You want to hide. You want him to be as far away from you as physically possible—maybe mars. At least then you didn’t have to worry about him recording you just like he tried with Thomas and Guy—and at least they knew how to handle it a lot better. Your mouth opens, words of frustration and shame going to come out before you decide really, it’s better to just ignore him and keep your face turned. It’s bad enough he knows your name, bad enough he’s following you, but just ignore him and go.

That plan only works till you’re at the end of the square and overlooking th parking lot, eyes feverishly searching for the car that would take out far away from this shameful situation. By that time, the man’s right behind you, almost trying to stick the camera in your face. The bright red light that indicates it’s recording only adds another layer of embarrassment, another realization that oh yeah, it’s going on the internet—people aren’t supposed to pay attention to you but this is going on the internet and you don’t want people watching it and—

You shove your hand at the camera, managing to at least push the damn thing out of your face.

"That’s pretty rude," The man beside you states lowly. "It’s not like you have reporters and fans, y/n, what in the world is your issue with it?"

The statement in itself hurts, because damn straight you don’t have anyone paying attention to you—that’s the way you want it. Like the lover and partner of any celebrity, you don’t want people in your face constantly wherever you go, and both bots have worked their servos off to make sure it stays that way. Everyone except this damn asshole has left you alone for the most part, and you’re so pissed and worried and scared that you just step away from him. He of course steps closer, leaning his face far closer than what’s comfortable of personal space.

"Stop recording that right now," You say, but the words do nothing, and the red light keeps flickering. Eventually you just cover your face with your hands, arms up and blocking whatever view the camera might get of your face.

It’s probably only half a minute, maybe even less, but the stretch of time for you just standing there and /feeling/ that camera recording you nearly makes you want to cry out of frustration. A torture you can’t help but wonder how other VIPs endure, how they cope with a camera shoved in their face and people invading their personal space with little regard to themselves as a person. It’s shameful and horrible and hell you even are probably starting to cry, if only because you’re so angry and anxious and you really want to punch him and you’re not even sure if you can without getting backlash and making things worse—oh yeah, that’s just what you want, your name plastered on the news in an ironic twist to keep your name off the news by punching that scumbag.

There’s a clattering of voices before you know it. Some are familiar, blissfully so, and suddenly there’s a pair of arms encircling your waist. It takes less than a few moments to realize that—thank god—it’s only Guy.

"It’s alright," He murmurs, the cool touch of his screen against your neck. "Hey, it’s alright, we’re here."

It doesn’t take all that long for you to realize where Thomas is in all this mess and chaos—the sound of his voice is more than enough to figure it out.

"Put that away now before I call the authorities." It’s low, calm, and hell if it’s not even wavering, even as the camera is all but shoved in his faceplate. The man only laughs and keeps recording, none to the surprise perhaps of anyone there. Thomas makes a low noise, and repeats his warning. "Put that away, or I /will/ call the authorities." And still, all it gets is a few curious glances from the park goers sitting on the bench nearby (one of them with an expression that almost looked a bit sympathetic towards you three), and a remark from the man in front of Thomas.

"I wasn’t doing anything with s/p, just taking some pictures." It was as if he was trying to defend himself, and god did it make you want to throw up just by hearing it. You wanted to return the words with venom in your voice, but Guy’s just gently humming at you and petting a gold-plated hand over your h/c hair.

"Just let Thomas handle the bastard," He whispers, with barely any glitch to the forced quiet sound.

And indeed, the promise holds true—Thomas does indeed handle him. You’re not able to see all that much, especially when Guy’s turning you around and letting you bury your face in his neck, but the sudden crack and electrical hissing is more than evident that the camera isn’t recording anymore. A wave of relief floods through you at the knowledge that it’s trashed, and those videos are utterly ruined. Oh thank god.

"What the hell?" The man exclaims, just as the sound is accompanied by the metallic thumping of the broken camera falling on the ground—Thomas probably crushed it in his hands, holy shit. "Do you know how much that thing costs?" He sounds angry and frustrated, and it’s perfect. Thank god.

"Bill us," is all Thomas growls, and then he’s standing beside Guy and making muted, soft little chittering noises as the two of them communicate between one another. Hell if you care for specifics—the camera is broken and that guy is cursing, but nevertheless sounds like he’s going away. Nobody else comes up to bother any of you after that, so all you can do is just keep your face in Guy’s neck and reveling at the firm, protective hold his arm has around you.

All three of you are quiet, and it’s no surprise that Guy sits beside you in the backseat of the car, never once letting go of you. He murmurs nonsensical sounds in your ear every now and again, gentle little chitters and hums that help calm your heart and head back down. Thank god they got here.

The drive is quiet outside the gentle hum of the engine, the occasional noise from Guy, and the sound of your heart finally slowing to a normal, calm pace within your chest. And it’s only then that one of them says something, and the tone is as gentle as it is low.

"Did he take anything else?" You sigh and nod your head, almost feeling ashamed in the act of letting it happen, even though you know both bots would nearly go insane to tell you otherwise.

"Just some pictures," Your hand grips Guy’s shirt a little harder. "My face, probably. He knew my name too." But thank god that was it. You figure it’s not too difficult to grab a name, and really the quality of his pictures isn’t at all better than what you’ve faced with in the US, so…

"I don’t think anything should come of it," Thomas murmurs, looking through the rearview mirror into your eyes. You offer a little smile in return. "Just don’t worry about him; if something does come up, we’ll handle it—it’s nothing we aren’t already used to."

It’s a bit annoying and sad that they /are/ used to it at all, but the knowledge that your personal information is safely secured by them is enough to calm most of the tendrils of anxiety lacing through your chest. Guy’s arm loosens a slight around you, but only so his fingers can caress along your side.

"Lets go home," he says. "I’m sure you’ll love to hear some of the stuff we were working on in the studio today."

His words make you smile, and you lean yourself against his warm body, taking comfort in his arm around you.


End file.
